


The Tale of  John Watson and Sherlock Holmes’ Horrible Kiss, an Epic Poem in 46 Stanzas

by Linpatootie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (although she regrets nothing), Crack, Epic Poem, M/M, a rather lot of snogging, the author apologises profusely for everything, yes it's genuinely a poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:11:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linpatootie/pseuds/Linpatootie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock kisses John, but he's really, genuinely rubbish at it. John's just kind of confused, but there's really only one thing to be done, isn't there?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tale of  John Watson and Sherlock Holmes’ Horrible Kiss, an Epic Poem in 46 Stanzas

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Reluctantabandon, who won me in FuckYeahJohnlockFanfic's 10.000 Followers Giveaway. The prompt she gave me was ‘really epic snogging’. So I. Wrote an epic poem. About snogging. Yeah. I don’t really understand how my brain works, either. Just... go with it?  
> many thanks, as usual, to my lovely beta Tazigo ♥

John Watson, the doctor, the soldier, the hero, and truly not gay,  
Finds himself embraced by his flatmate, delightful pleasure,  
Swayed by desire denied for so long, sweet lips, great arse,  
Even our good doctor cannot refuse such beauty and such grace. 

Erato, muse of love, sing of John Watson’s first kiss from a man,  
Sing to us now of love, deep longing, boundaries crossed,  
Delight us with a tale of homoerotic pleasure,  
Tell us the tale of the passionate snog that will echo through time. 

The hero does not see it coming, the sudden loving attack,  
Lips and teeth on his face, inexpert, enthusiastic,  
Too wet experience shared with a high-functioning loon.  
“What the bloody buggery fuck!” he exclaims, his arms raised up high. 

His wondrous flatmate backs up, sky-bright eyes wide in enormous shock.  
“I thought you wanted this too,” he says with great confusion,  
“Even though you’re not gay, your eyes reveal your desire,  
Coloured like stormy grey sky, lightning-bright with my every exploit. 

Great longing, just barely concealed, so deeply felt by me as well,  
Mirrored in each other’s loyal gaze, we both know it’s true.”  
“Why the fuck are you talking like that,” John Watson rebuts,  
“And I have no idea what you are on about, you lunatic.” 

“But all eyes on us can see! You’re wrought with longing equal to me!  
Cries of ‘you’re a couple’ are ample and no delusion,  
Our connection strong and true, hearts tied together in fate.”  
Sherlock’s insistence burns brightly and John feels rather bewildered. 

“I cannot follow you if you keep talking like this, all in verse,  
Not to mention with your saliva all over my chin.”  
John stares as Sherlock flounders across their messy kitchen,  
His housecoat swishing about his long legs with certain frustration. 

“You cannot convince me you have never considered the option,  
Nor get upset with me for daring to take the first step.”  
Sherlock is angry, masking his disappointment crudely,  
Placing the blame on John, which is really not entirely fair.

“Fine, throw your bloody tantrum,” John utters in exasperation,  
“I need to process this new trauma, thank you very much.”  
He clambers up the stairs and hides himself within his room,  
Trying and failing to make sense of this brand new development. 

Did his odd friend genuinely confess his feelings in verse form?  
The brave soldier thinks deep, remembering days now long gone,  
When Holmes did not yet exist to him and life was simple,  
When did his existence get so bloody confusing exactly? 

Three and one score years ago lips graced his in first experience,  
Young Penelope, such glowing beauty, small breasts round hips,  
Lips glossy pink and tasting like cherries in June so sweet,  
A taste for kisses awakened within and never lost again. 

A woman’s gentle touch, sticky red lipstick, soft dreamy delight,  
Like ambrosia to this brave doctor, addictive life source,  
Searched for and oft obtained by favour of natural charm,  
Love’s promise ever inspiring the beat of his loyal heart. 

Every woman a beauty in her own right in John’s loving eyes,  
The chase as rewarding as their soft lips and fragrant skin,  
Since that very first time forever present in his mind,  
His unshakable love for women’s kisses, highlights of his life. 

Yet caressing a man’s lips with his own he never considered,  
Not even seen as something he might actually do,  
Never a part of his ever-expanding universe,  
Simply not entertained within the sphere of his imagination. 

But then Sherlock Holmes whirled into frame and turned everything around.  
From angry man, limping with trauma and trembling with hate,  
Screaming himself wide awake from unbearable dreams and  
Silently bursting with yearning for long lost adventure, alone, 

Perhaps no more Afghan red horizon, warm sand, dark scent of war,  
But a hero again, forged in gray drizzling London rain.  
Now solving crimes, blogging about it, and forgetting pants,  
Never having to say ‘Nothing happens to me’ ever again. 

Excitement now an everyday staple, benefit to his health,  
Like jam on toast or mince pies, the 221B diet,  
John feels adrenalin’s welcome nibble within now too,  
And realises it was the badly aimed smooch that set it free. 

Oh, why is he even surprised that the plot has twisted this way,  
When all of his life has become such a chaotic blur?  
Sherlock steps beyond any bounds a man might cultivate,  
And perhaps all gossip stands true – they just might be a couple too. 

The Woman predicted this so many months ago already,  
(To be fair he hated her for that just a little bit)  
(fine, perhaps he hated her a lot, not that he’s jealous)  
Their friendship going so much further than he’d ever admitted.

He knows he wishes to be with Sherlock for the rest of his life,  
Maybe a bit of snogging would not be a bad idea,  
Another adventure to blindly throw himself into,  
And let’s face it, Sherlock is quite the sight, even for straight sore eyes.

The prospect of exploring this does offer him some excitement,  
But just one little issue brings uncertainty to light.  
His lips still sting dully from Sherlock’s horribly timed bite,  
The detective’s saliva still drying upon his chin. 

He cannot imagine kisses like this will bring him much pleasure,  
A bit like having an eager mollusc attack your face,  
Sherlock really ought to be taught how to properly kiss,  
If John is seriously going to consider being his.

He looks at himself in his full-length mirror and decides right there,  
That this is a time-consuming project he will tackle.  
He goes back downstairs and finds Sherlock in their living room,  
Stopped in his tracks by John’s return, staring at him in wide-eyed shock.

“Wearing a trench in the rug, are we?” John says, and Sherlock looks cross,  
“You can stop now, I’ve figured this situation right out.”  
Sherlock does not look too convinced, mind racing to catch up,  
Angry rejection slapped across his face, he struggles to get this.

But John simply smiles and he shrugs, to Sherlock’s further confusion,  
Looks up his dear friend’s lean height and sighs in sweet surrender.  
If this is now his path he’d best commit to it fully,  
Sherlock’s bitching would never again cease if he did otherwise. 

“You are more of a marvel every day, my brilliant friend,  
So clever yet so obtuse to things of romance,  
(bloody hell I’m talking in verse now too)  
I must say, for a genius in so many ways,  
You are utterly rubbish at snogging.”

Sherlock sputters and scowls, his frail pride taking quite a beating,  
Blinded with insult does not expect the turn which follows,  
As John lifts his hand and touches his friend’s smooth-shaven jaw,  
Sherlock abruptly colours and catches on with surprised delight. 

“While I protest too much and cling to how I want to see myself,  
Even I cannot deny being with you gives me thrills,  
It’s a shock that you of all people wish to explore this,  
But you have awoken interest within me I wish to grant life.” 

“Not that this poses a conclusion which does not bring me great joy,  
Why would you feel the need to insult my kissing skills first?”  
“Because you nearly bit my nose off, you slobbering berk,  
Now be quiet and let this army doctor show you how it’s done.” 

And with that our brave if short soldier leans up on his tippy toes,  
Connects his mouth with Sherlock’s and the whole planet lights up.  
Dry and chapped and wholly unresponsive, his best friend’s lips,  
With such a simple caress a storm is created within him.

For Sherlock is warm and so alive, not a machine in the least,  
A very much human presence now so close to our John,  
Smelling oh so faintly of cologne and formaldehyde,  
Simply a true and tangible reality under John’s mouth. 

Even the angle, their heights so diverse, is new and exciting,  
Taller than any girl John has ever been so close to,  
He thinks to himself, ‘perhaps I may climb him like a tree’,  
And never knew he was so attracted to tall people before. 

John patters tiny pecks to the corners of Sherlock’s mouth, lightly,  
Measures the line of his closed lips to Sherlock’s perfectly,  
Gets a feel, a sense, such tantalising exploration,  
Learning about Sherlock through the perfect curve of his unkissed lips.

Sherlock stays still in fragile silence as John presses in closer,  
A tentative hand moving to cup John’s elbow gently,  
Eyes fluttering shut as he gives John all leeway he needs,  
Prodding Sherlock’s fair lips apart with the tip of his eager tongue.

To this Sherlock responds straight away with unpractised eagerness,  
Offering John his own tongue in wet enthusiasm.  
The army doctor’s giggle dances across Sherlock’s teeth,  
“Slow down, follow my lead,” he says, lips dragging over Sherlock’s mouth. 

He gives him just a teasing touch of tongue, pressed to his lower lip,  
Tantalising, tasting ever so lightly of his breath,  
Tipping it to his upper lip then, perfect Cupid’s bow,  
And Sherlock’s breath hitches and his other hand clutches John’s jumper. 

A taste of teeth then, tongue dipped between Sherlock’s sweetly wanting lips,  
A tremble travels through John as he struggles to stay slow,  
Gently teaching Sherlock the art of a thorough, good kiss,  
And he seems to be catching on too, damn fast learner as he is.

He touches the tip of his own tongue to John’s, shivers down his spine,  
Arms locking fully around as Sherlock pulls him higher,  
Closer, deeper, mouths sliding, John’s nose against Sherlock’s cheek,  
His hand curling round the back of his neck, soft curls tickling fingers.

John offers more tongue, open mouths fitting together perfectly,  
Sherlock licks it and makes a sound, hard to miss, very soft,  
But most certainly an ‘I love you’ unique in its kind,  
‘I love you as well’ John responds without sound, to his own surprise. 

Perhaps an epic kiss was all it took to coax truth out his heart,  
A majestic fit, bodies and mouths, souls and minds alike,  
He smiles into the kiss, amused, Sherlock’s tongue in his mouth,  
Frenching his friend births as many epiphanies as getting shot. 

“I am getting the hang of it now, yes?” Sherlock whispers wetly,  
Deploying a great horde of pleasured shivers down John’s neck,  
“God, yes,” he replies with hushed sincerity, so close still,  
“You may become a fantastic lover just yet, you wait and see.”

“I will with such an incredible teacher as yourself,” Sherlock says,  
“And rest assured I intend to fully commit myself,  
To whatever teachings you may desire to offer,  
I am your truly willing pupil, however you may want me.”

That promise certainly makes John feel uncontrollably giddy,  
And he presses his mouth to Sherlock’s cheekbone and smiles,  
“Never a dull moment with you, as I have said before,  
And I will make it my mission to educate you thoroughly.”

Sherlock laughs and John joins him, spurred by the absurd situation,  
Falling in love with your best friend through forty six stanzas,  
Having your first genuine kiss in somewhat dodgy verse,  
Pressing his face in Sherlock’s neck he sighs, this is not bad at all.

Such concludes our tale of the blossoming love between these two friends,  
A whole new area for our detective to explore,  
And a novel new adventure for our army doctor,  
Mrs. Hudson can now happily hope for her own married ones. 

We leave them to embrace and imagine their own happy ending,  
Made of fond insults and playful jibes, not quite warm whispers,  
The peculiar love of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,  
Finally set aflame for both by one truly _epic_ French kiss.


End file.
